


Baby Driver

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: ... kind of?, Banter, Driver Bitty, Driver Jack, Gangs, I know nothing about cars, Idiots in Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Street Racing, They're all good cookies though, Unreliable Narrator, listen, off-road racing, this is three lines of context stacked in a trench coat, to justify a very specific porn scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29454861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: His eyes set on the man sitting on the car's hood, propped on one gloved hand, phone stuck underneath. Today's attire of choice seems to be leather pants and a black crop-top that is somehow also a hoodie hiding away the blonde mess of hair Jack could recognize anywhere, now.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, others implied
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58





	Baby Driver

**Author's Note:**

> As said in the tags, I have no valuable knowledge about cars and racing, so if you're here for that specific reason it's probably not the fic for you. And this is not at all related to the movie! 
> 
> Basically: hot boys being hot for each other and *checks notes written on palm* ... cars. Unbetaed. Happy Valentine's day!

_ And I was born one dark gray morn _

_ With music coming in my ears, in my ears _

_ They call me Baby Driver _

_ And once upon a pair of wheels _

_ I hit the road and I'm gone _

_ What's my number? _

_ I wonder how your engines feel _

\- Baby Driver, Simon & Garfunkel

"You got this, Cap," Shitty says, solemn, a hand clasping Jack's shoulder.

Jack grunts, something noncommittal. He's never in the mood to talk before a race, and he needs to stay on top of his game today.

His gaze wanders to his left, where the other car is parked, in alarming tones of teal and an even more distressing shark-teeth design spreading on its sides. It's not what catches Jack's attention, though, as his eyes set on the man sitting on its hood, propped on one gloved hand, phone stuck underneath. Today's attire of choice seems to be leather pants and a black crop-top that is somehow also a hoodie hiding away the blonde mess of hair Jack could recognize anywhere, now.

Jack sighs.

Samwell used to be an uneventful town, so cut off from the rest of the world that people had stopped caring about Jack a long time ago, with not enough newcomers to revive ancient scandals. Add onto that kilometers and kilometers of disaffected, semi-desertic land around, perfect for racing... Yeah, life used to be easy.

And then the Sharks showed up.

It's not like they're gangs. Just two groups of people so bored by living in BFN that they had taken a deep pleasure at hating each other. It's immature and petty, and Jack couldn't care less about his friends' vendettas against the Sharks if it weren't for the off-road racing. Which kind of is Jack's thing — considering his father, considering he was born behind the wheel.

He bounces his knee once, twice, and sighs again. At this rate, no racing will be happening today.

"Man, I want to see them obliterated," Holster says, gritting his teeth, as he props himself beside Jack.

"Yeah." Nursey nods, his jaw squared, eyes on the red-headed Shark doing the last check-up on the car. Dex, or something like that. Jack's really bad with names.

"Today could be the day," Shitty says, kicking gravel around with the tip of his foot, "if only WE COULD START."

On the hood of the other car, the young man rips one of his earbuds out. He hops on the ground and pops his bubble gum once, deep-red against his pink lips. Jack can nearly _taste_ that cherry flavor, Jesus.

"Bittle," Jack acknowledges with a nod.

Bittle lifts his chin and smirks. The earbud that's still plugged in his ear is emitting the sound of faint bass. Bey-something. "Wellie."

Jack rolls his eyes — he still can't believe the name stuck after all these years, since Shitty asked Johnson — _dyslexic_ Johnson — to engrave their name with white paint over the red of their car, and Wheelies had become Wellies. To Bittle's never-ending glee.

"Please don't hurry on my account," Jack says.

"Lord," Bittle chuckles, "that awfully considerate of you. I'll be nice too and wait for you at the finish line."

Bittle's friends whistle, while Shitty distinctively snorts in Jack's back.

"Don't call the race before it starts, Bittle," Jack warns him.

"Only someone who relies on chance rather than talent would be afraid of jinxing it, honey."

Jack rolls his eyes. "Stop trying to be cute."

"I can be cute and still beat your sorry ass to the finish line, Zimmermann," Bittle says before he throws a look over his shoulder. "Lards?"

The only woman of the group — and not here because she's anyone's girlfriend as far as Jack knows — steps forward, just as Shitty does by Jack's side.

"Today's a circuit," Lardo says, her tone meaning business. "Official start when Knight drops the flag, you go all the way to the boulder, you circle it from the outside, Chowder's there to make sure you don't pull anything illegal, and you come back here, finish line is the left side of the oak tree. Understood?"

He nods, along with Bittle. It's a circuit Jack knows by heart. Today's the day he could be beating his best time.

"Bittle," Jack says, extending his hand, that Bittle shakes.

"Zimmermann."

Bittle's hand is small in his own, soft knuckles under a black glove. "Good luck."

Bittle winks. "You're gonna need it."

"All right, all right, fellas," Shitty says, "let's get this party started!"

A minute later, Jack sitting behind the wheel, slapping his gloves on. On his right, Bittle's engine roars. Jack throws him a look, and Bittle smirks back. Jeez, okay.

Hand on the clutch, he watches as Shitty yells, "Three! Two! One! … Go!"

The thing is: Bittle is fast.

Bittle is the fastest driver Jack's ever competed with — he doesn't have the technique Jack studied and practiced for years, and that might prove him detrimental on an actual track, but he's the kind of driver that just _feels_ their car. Bittle's got that instinct. It's undeniable.

Jack grits his teeth, picking up speed until the front of his car reaches Bittle's passenger door. There are clouds of dust in their wake, and Jack smirks, letting his shoulders relax against his seat — this, the smell of cheap leather, the dust, the engine roaring, is his favorite thing in the world. There's no prize to win, no championships to prepare, no interviews to give. Just him, the land, and his car.

And Bittle.

The boulder's approaching at a speed, a young man perched on top of it, wearing a hoodie the same color as Bittle's car. Makes him visible, at least. If Jack can maintain his speed, and keep perfect drift control in the turn like he's practiced a thousand times, he's got this.

Easier said than done: Bittle cuts in front of him just around the corner of the boulder, and Jack watches the swinging motion of the teal car as it expertly drifts in a half-circle, eyes transfixed on the rectangular pride flag sticker gathering dust on Bittle's rear window.

It's not a distraction he can afford and he's just a bit slow on the clutch, his car protesting his driving while he drifts, and when he's got his wheels back under himself, Bittle is already a few good meters ahead.

"Câlisse d'osti de tabarnak—"

Nothing he does after that makes a difference, and he knows he's done for when he sees the oak tree in the distance, both the Wellies and the Sharks gather a bit further away, probably either cheering or tugging their hair out of their heads.

He can't be more than four seconds late on Bittle when the teal car crosses the oak and breaks, drifting to the side, and Jack turns his wheel at the last second, crossing the wrong side of the tree, full breaks on until his body swings back against his seat, car coming on a full stop.

"Jesus fuck!" he shouts, kicking his door open, undoing his belt at the same time. "I could have fucking run into you!"

Bittle doesn't seem so concerned, innocently smiling at him, propped against the side of his car while pop music is blasting on the radio.

"Oh, Jack, I don't think you're _that_ slow."

Jack rolls his eyes — Bittle can be exasperating, sometimes. Well, most of the time. A special brand of exasperating designed just for Jack.

"Seriously, Bittle. I'm not here to wreck anyone."

That's definitely not in his definition of racing, and Bittle knows it.

Bittle snorts and bites on his lower lip, but before he can say anything, Jack's attention is distracted by the two groups joining them, and Shitty's miserable expression as he shoves in Duan's hand a small bundle of cash.

"We'll get 'em next time, Cap," Shitty says and goes to ruffle Jack's hair, throwing an arm around him at the same time, while Bittle is swallowed in a huddle of cheers and bro-y congratulations.

"Jesus, Shits, stop losing your money on me."

It hasn't happened yet and probably won't anytime soon. It's been a while since he's been the best driver in Samwell ("King of the motherfucking road!" Shitty used to call him) though he won't ever admit it out loud. He still can make the LAX bros have a good run for their money, so.

"Aaah, it's fine, Jack-o," Shitty says, with a slight smile. "We'll get 'em someday."

He allows himself a smile — he might have lost, but Shitty's faith remains unwavering.

"All right, guys, this has been fun but we need to get Chowder back," Bittle says, stepping behind the open door of his car, as his group gathers around him.

"'Til next time, Bittle."

Bittle salutes him, military style, and Jack can't help but chuckle at that.

*

"Oooooy, losers!" Shitty calls and Jack jumps in his seat.

His thoughts were far away for a moment as he came to a stop in front of the light, but now that he leans forward, he can see the distinguishable teal color of the car beside them. Shitty's already rolling the window down, making Jack sigh, while Nursey and Holster shuffle in the backseat.

"Who the fuck are you calling losers?" a Shark calls from the other car… (Ransom?)

"Yeah!" another — Chowder — shouts. "Pretty sure we won, last time!"

"Fuck you, man, we've won plenty," Shitty shouts back. "I'd like to see _you_ beat those LAX assholes!"

Considering they're into street racing, yeah, Jack would like to see it too. It's not Bittle's style, though, as it's not his own — par one mistake he won't be repeating any time soon, but it did teach those fuckers a few things.

On the other side of his eternally dirty, half-open window, Jack distinguishes Bittle's smirk, as he fiddles with the radio with one hand.

On Bittle's right, Duan raises from her seat, leaning her body over his seat to give Shitty the finger. "GO SUCK A DICK, KNIGHT!"

"THAT'S CRAZY HOMOPHOBIC, DUAN!"

"I DIDN'T MEAN IT AS AN INSULT, JUST AN INVITATION TO SHUT THE FUCK UP."

Holster reaches over the open window, to shove a hand at the Sharks car. "CAN WE PLEASE STOP FUCKING SHOUTING FOR A SECOND?"

"Holster," Jack warns, eyeing him in the mirror.

Inevitably: "KEEP YOUR DIRTY HANDS FROM OUR CAR!" (Ransom.)

"Yeah, you'll mess with the paint job!" (Chowder.)

"Jesus Christ, what's your problem?" (Dex.)

It's Nursey's turn to lean over Holster. "Peace, man, chill," he tells Dex, whose face goes through five different shades of red in a matter of seconds.

"I'm gonna fucking—" he starts, reaching to open the door, and for the first time, Bittle intervenes.

" _Stay in the car, Dex_ ," he snaps, eyes on the road.

Right, they're kind of in the middle of the street, not that the town's people wouldn't expect anything else coming from them. Jack gets his eyes back on the stoplight, knowing full well that they're all just bluffing. The worst that happened in Samwell in the last few years had been a broken nose, not even with the Sharks to begin with.

He smirks at the memory. The LAX bro definitely regretted crashing that party. Jack didn't regret his reddened knuckles.

"Calm down, everyone," Jack says, placing a hand on Shitty's shoulder. "It's gonna turn green."

As if hearing him, Bittle makes his car's engines roar, once, twice, and Jack rolls his eyes, hand ready on the clutch. It's only for show, of course, they don't do anything like that out there where they might put other lives in danger. But then, Bittle's always been a lot of show.

*

The sun is low in the sky, yet it's still hot. Too hot for Jack, his tee-shirt clinging to his skin, his ripped jeans melting on his legs.

He takes a turn on the main road, eyes on the cars waiting at the next light, a teal monstrosity amongst teal.

He huffs and drives forward until he stops at Bittle's height, a few good meters between him and the next car waiting for the light to turn. It reminds him of their latest altercation, two days ago. It hadn't been as hot as it is today, back when they were racing in the wasteland.

He takes a look, only to witness Bittle staring at the road, the sunset hitting the metal rim of his aviators, the red of his sun-burned, freckled cheeks. He blows his bubble gum into a ridiculously large balloon, looking down at his lap for a moment, before he pops it, working his tongue to slip it right back in his mouth.

Jack rubs a hand up his thigh and presses his fist right where his leg meets his hip.

His phone, tilted in the cupholder between the two seats, pings with a new notification. He barely looks at it. Fuck. Can this light change already?

It does, and the moment it goes green, Bittle pushes on the accelerator.

"Jesus Christ," Jack whispers to himself, following him closely.

They're barely above the speed limit, and Bittle's tailgating the car in front of him in the most polite way until he reaches that one exit and speeds away. Jack could make his car swerve and cut lanes, but there's good traffic behind them, so he settles for a good ol' swear and gets on the right for the next exit.

It's a countryside road after that, kilometers on end of fields on his right, the path slightly going down so he can see Bittle's light just head, with no one else around.

He pushes down on the accelerator.

Bittle notices, because of course he does, and from that moment on, Jack knows he won't be able to beat him to the mark. Jesus. He's been a whole lot of useless these past few days. He needs to race Holster sometime soon.

Inevitably, Bittle turns right, into a mass of bushes that seemingly lead nowhere, and by the time Jack manages his car out of them, Bittle is leaning against the door of his own, arms crossed over his chest. It's nearly dark, now, a band of pale purple sky and bright yellow over the horizon.

Keeping the headlights on, Jack steps out of his car.

Bittle makes a show of checking an imaginary watch on his wrist before he looks up again. "Late again, old man."

"And I was planning to be nice," Jack sighs, rolling his eyes.

Bittle hums and goes to sit on the hood of his car. He's wearing the crop top again, with obscenely revealing booty shorts. "You know my thoughts on that," Bittle says.

He resists rolling his eyes once more, and instead, steps right up to Bittle. He doesn't shy away, not from Jack's glare, not from Jack's body. Should Bittle stand up, right now, they would be pressed chest to chest.

Instead, he stares back, with fierce brown eyes, and slowly, slowly, without even looking, reaches for the outline of Jack's erection bulging the front of his jeans.

Jack leans into his touch.

"Jack."

"Bittle."

Their noses brush, but Bittle doesn't close the distance, and Jack follows his lead, only to place his palms against the still-hot hood of the car, trapping Bittle with his body as he grinds his hips down on him.

Bittle's hands, on Jack's back, travel down to his ass and slip into the back pockets of his jeans. He retrieves the small packet from there with a grin.

"Someone's feelin' lucky tonight," Bittle chuckles, lifting the condom for Jack to see.

"If I remember correctly, it has more to do with talent than with luck."

"Ha!" Bittle laughs. "You wish. I thought you weren't into wrecking anyone."

Jack snorts — god, it's so bad. "I can make exceptions."

Bittle hums, his eyelids heavy, but he's still denying Jack that kiss. Instead, he moves his lips to Bittle's neck, that sweet spot that usually makes his _luck_ skyrocket.

He gently bites the skin there, worrying it with his teeth until Bittle squirms under him. Jack slips a hand up his thigh, up, up, up, and up until he meets the beginning of Bittle's running shorts, the fabric light and easy to push up to access softer, sensitive skin.

He sucks on Bittle's neck — he might be leaving a mark but then, if Bittle had any qualms about it, he wouldn't play so hard to get and they'd be making out already. Feisty little thing, already so needy, panting and humping the head of his hard cock against Jack's abs.

Jack goes lower and lower, kissing the sweaty fabric of Bittle's tee until his lips reach the bare skin of Bittle's belly.

"Jack," Bittle repeats, out of breath, as he sits up.

Jack isn't done yet: he pushes his face against Bittle's warm skin and diverts his path to press a kiss to the head of Bittle's cock, already leaving a wet stain against the fabric of his shorts.

"Jack."

Jack hums, pulls the shorts down a bit — no underwear, of fucking course — and gets his mouth on that lovely, lovely dick, swallowing it whole, bobbing his head once, twice, Bittle gasping above him.

"Jack!"

His name, on Bittle's lips. _Yes_.

He lets go of him and looks up, ready to keep going or to do more of the same, but Bittle pushes him away, scoots forward, and stands up.

Bittle turns his back on him, facing the car, and shoots Jack a look from above his shoulder, lifting the condom up until Jack plucks it from his fingers. He smirks and slowly undoes the front of his jeans. His erection coming free is a relief, and he can't help but tug at it once or twice, eyes on Bittle's still-clothed ass, as he rolls the condom on.

Jesus, those shorts. He returns his free hand to Bittle's ass, hooks his finger in the fabric between Bittle's legs, and pulls. Bittle gasps, opening his legs a bit wider, as the front of his shorts must be pressing down on his dick. One day, Jack will eat him out with those still on.

"Jack," Bittle whines.

"I thought you didn't want me to be nice."

Still, he comes up behind him, until they're pressed chest to back. An arm around Bittle, he pushes his shorts down and back to hook them behind Bittle's balls, making his spit-slicked dick bulge forward. Pressing a kiss to the crook of Bittle's neck, Jack jerks him off, slowly, until Bittle whines once more.

It takes a bit more fumbling around for Jack to extract the packet of lube he's got in his pocket, and to coat his cock with it. He pulls on Bittle's shorts again and they fall to his ankles with ease. Half-naked in the middle of nowhere. It's not like anyone will ever find them here, but it still makes Jack's dick pulse with want.

"Goodness, Jack," Bittle says, hurrying him along. "C'mon."

He reaches for Jack's hand and places it on his hip. Jack's other hand is still slick with lube, and so he takes the time to slip his fingers between Bittle's cheeks, to slick his hole a bit.

Gently, he rubs his dick up and down the crease of Bittle's ass.

"I hate your car," he says, gazing at the shark-like thing in front of them.

Bittle makes a sound. "She's—" Jack pushes in, slowly. No prep. Like Bittle wants. " _aah—_ she's beautiful."

He keeps on pressing forward, trying to focus on anything else but Bittle's tight hole, his tiny gasps and slightly pained noises that have never before been an indication to stop.

"She's atrocious," he whispers, as he buries himself completely. "That color hurts my eyes."

"It makes Chowder happy."

"I love you."

Bittle hums, letting his head fall against Jack's shoulder, and though Jack can't see his face, he knows he's smiling, content. He bends down and kisses Bittle's shoulder.

He thrusts forward, gently at first, still feeling Bittle adjusting around him as he relaxes more with every passing second.

He throws his head back as he picks up speed, and tries not to think about anything in particular, especially not how good Bittle feels, how good Bittle is _to him_ , allowing Jack to fuck him in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, just because, just because—

"Are you gonna admit it?"

Jack frowns against Bittle's hair, biting on his lower lip, sweat gathering on his forehead. "Hmm, what?"

"That— ah— I'm the best between the two of us?"

Jack snorts. "I've never denied that."

"I meant— driving."

Jack's eyes fly open, and he stills, momentarily.

"Ooh," Bittle lets out, bucking against him so hard Jack has to steady him with a hand on his hip, " _that's_ not nice."

Then, because why the fuck not: "Yes."

"Say it."

"I, Jack Laurent Zimmermann," he says, punctuating each word with a thrust, "admit you are the better driver between the two of us."

"Aw, never mind," Bittle says, his voice suddenly soft. "Not if it— ah— ah— makes you sad."

"It makes me fucking hard, Bittle, that's what it makes me."

Bittle steps away from him, and he slips out with a gasp, because fuck, he was really getting there.

Instead, Bittle turns to face him, something impossibly complicated to decipher on his face, in his burning eyes. "Say it again," he says, an edge in his tone that makes Jack understand right away what he's talking about.

He takes a step towards Bittle. "I love you." And another. "I love you."

He's said it countless times, now, and he's always meant it, but he'll say it again and again if it takes that for Bittle to believe him.

Bittle's lips part, and before Jack knows what's happening, they're body against body, and Bittle tastes of cherry bubble gum. They topple on the hood of the car, still hot against Jack's palms, and Jack, blindly, finds his way again, presses right back into Bittle, into the warmth of his body, as Bittle wraps his legs around him.

"J't'aime," he pants into Bittle's mouth. "J't'aime tellement."

"I love you," Bittle says, a tiny, shy thing of a statement, but a statement nonetheless. Bittle reaches for him, pushing his hair away from his forehead. "Jack, Jack— look at me— _I love you._ "

Jack whines as Bittle drops a hand between his legs, to touch himself with Jack's name on his lips, and there's nothing Jack can do except fuck up into him so hard that it makes them slide on the teal metal, the car's suspension creaking under them.

"Bittle—"

He can't hold that rhythm for long, he's so hard, he's so aroused it _hurts_ him right in the pit of his stomach, but Bittle's fist is flying over his cock, his head thrown back and his eyes scrunched close, and Jack knows he's coming, from the way he starts fluttering, pulsing around his dick, from the way he gasps—

"Jack, oh my god, Jack!"

Jack kind of wants to see, to witness the look on Bittle's face as he orgasms, the little face he makes that Jack's seen dozens of times and loves more than anything else, but Jack's too far gone to stop chasing his own pleasure, bending Bittle nearly in half, burying himself deeper and deeper until—

"Fuck, Bittle!"

His jaw goes slack and his whole body might be trembling, but it's the best he's felt in a long time, riding the wave of seemingly unending pleasure, his dick pulsing again, and again, and again.

Minutes later, he gently slips out, their foreheads pressed together, slick with sweat. Bittle's eyes are brown and wide and Jack doesn't want to stop looking in them. This time, Bittle finds his lips first and doesn't let go for a long time.

They make out some more after they've dressed, lazily, without too many words. Bittle's content and lax against him, and Jack would care of a second round if the first one hadn't been so intense. But both of them are living with roommates, _curious_ roommates at that, and they've managed this to stay a secret for this long, they shouldn't compromise everything just now.

"I need to go," Bittle says, though unhurried kisses.

"Yeah."

"I really need to go."

"Okay. I'll text you?"

Bittle smiles at him. "You better."

"Okay."

Jack takes his time and makes sure Bittle climbs into his car before he gets in his own. They drive slowly on the dirt road until they reach the main one again, and Jack slips his head out of the window.

"Give a kiss to Señor Bun for me!" he shouts and is met with the most outraged glare through Bittle's mirror.

*

It's late, but he's hungry and quiet enough to grab a quick shake in his tiny kitchen.

His stealth proves useless, in the end, because Shitty steps into the kitchen with a yawn, rubbing a hand at the center of his chest. "Wondering where you were, man."

"I'm fine, Shitty, go back to bed."

Shitty hums, opens the freezer, and inexplicably reaches for an icepack. Shoulder to shoulder with Jack, he wraps the icepack into a cloth, while Jack finishes his shake.

And then: "Listen, man, I love you, but you really gotta shower. You kinda reek of sex."

Oops. "Uuuh. Yeah." It's not like he can deny it. The hem of his tee-shirt might also bear the traces of earlier action. They had to clean Bittle, somehow.

Unlike his usual self, Shitty doesn't seem to be in the mood to ask for deets, though.

Jack frowns. Leans in. Takes a sniff himself. "You… you too?" he says, slowly.

"Aaah," Shitty grins, eyes dreamy. "No comment. Not you, not me, okay?"

Jack smiles back. "Yeah, okay."

He can live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> ... and they were secretly an old married couple all this time! :D
> 
> Also, there is no animosity between the Wellies and the Sharks apart from unresolved sexual tension all around.


End file.
